


walk down this tilted stage

by rayguntomyhead



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, References to Canon-Typical Violence, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, fucked up mecha doing fucked up things bonding over music, now with bonus smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-05 14:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17326631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: “Doctor,” Tarn says. “I must say, I admire your taste in music.”The red optics in front of him burn with challenge. Pharma lets his vents cycle in, and out, sets down his glass without a sound.“One of Ostinato’s greatest works,” Pharma says slow, measured. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”“No, I can’t imagine we have,” Tarn says. “Most mecha do find it rather memorable."Written for the prompt,  "Tarn cornering Pharma in the dark halls of Delphi and flirting with him."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays and Secret Solenoid Moku! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Inspired partly by Bach's Partita No 2 for Violin, and also Taylor Swift's Look What You Made Me Do. Because _c'mon_ , with those lyrics? For this pairing?? How could I resist.

_Allemanda_

 

Even here in his quarters it finds him, the bitter cold of Delphi. It bites and scrapes at every seam and joint, winds around Pharma’s struts so deep it feels like he’ll never shake it.

He dials the heat as high as the decrepit, antiquated systems will let him, brews energon wine spiced with cadmium and chromium. Turns the _Planetian Suite_ up, lets the hollow echo of drums ground and warm the fluting melody twisting around it. It’s a dance he’s heard a thousand times, a particular favorite of his small collection. Primus, what he wouldn’t give for access to Iacon archives again, a thousand suites and a thousand melodies an easy download away.

His tablet pings. Pharma onlines his optics. The screen flashes _incoming transmission_ in a blocky slash of red letters, _sender unknown._ Well then. Not the council. Not the cheerful custom glyphs of First Aid or the standard issue Ambulon uses to bother him during his off-duty hours. Certainly not _Rachet–_

He toys with his glass, lets wine swirl in a shimmering rainbow reflecting off the light from the high square of a window. Not that he would care if it was. If Rachet couldn’t even be bothered with an _goodbye_ before ghosting off to Primus knows what assignment, much less an actual fond farewell, Pharma couldn’t be bothered to pick up his comm on the first try.   

His tablet pings again, stubbornly insistent. Well. Perhaps it’s news on the deca-cycles late supply shuttle. Wouldn’t that be a lovely surprise.

He taps the screen to accept the call. The screen flashes to life and–

Pharma can’t move. Behind him the music dips down and swells high, crescendoing into a cacophony of rhythm before fading back low.

_Primus._

It can’t be.

The leader of the Decepticon Justice Division doesn’t seem phased by his silence, only inclines his helm in greeting.

“Doctor,” Tarn says. “I must say, I admire your taste in music.”

Pharma had known the risks. Out here, alone, with only the paltry strength of a few dead-eyed miners to bolster them, on the edge of Decepticon-controlled territory. But this…

The red optics in front of him burn with challenge. Pharma lets his vents cycle in, and out, sets down his glass without a sound.

“One of Ostinato’s greatest works,” Pharma says slow, measured. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“No, I can’t imagine we have,” Tarn says. “Most mecha do find it rather memorable. However, I find that an introduction to you, the former prodigy of the Deltaran Medical Facility now located so conveniently at my doorstep, has become rather necessary.”

He steeples his fingers on the desk, looking for all the world as if he’s making a pleasant social call, to a once-known friendly acquaintance.  

“And to find that you’re an admirer of the classics too,” Tarn says bright, then pauses, splaying his hands in a gesture that seems vaguely regretful. “But then, I have not called you to discuss music.”

“No,” Pharma says. “I can’t imagine you have.”

He manually clamps down on the motor controls to his faceplates, keeps his expression unmoved. That voice… he had heard, certainly, of the power wielded by the great leader of the infamous DJD. His hulking build, his rough treads, the sharp cut of his mask. How his voice can wind around the spark at your core, snuffing the light before you even have the chance to beg for mercy.

No one had talked about this, the way his voice rolls deep, sweeter than syrup on oil cake, smoother than brushed steel as he talks about the merits of Cybertronian music. It’s _absurd._

“There are items I require,” Tarn says, “for which I’ve been unable to find a consistent supplier.”

“And you thought to call on an Autobot base?” Pharma doesn’t bother keeping the surprise from his face this time, because really? Honestly. He wasn’t sparked yesterday.

Tarn inclines his head.

“Unfortunately, I am possessed of a problem that you are uniquely situated to solve,” he says. “Which should rather be discussed in person. Of course, while such arrangements are being held, the DJD would guarantee the safety of you and your staff. First Aid, isn’t it? And what is the other one…”

Cold ices Pharma’s spinal strut straight as steel.

“Ah yes, Ambulon,” Tarn croons. “Yes, I do believe I’ve seen his name before. A Decepticon, wasn’t he? I’m sure they would be glad of an unexpected liberty.”

He plucks a pen from his desk, but he doesn’t write. Only rolls it between between his servos, almost idly. An old fashioned thing, practically an antique, but clearly well kept, covered in delicate spirals of filigree, the laser tip narrow enough to etch out delicate glyphs.

“It’s such a simple thing,” Tarn says, and his voice drops to rolling purr, “for such a great leniency.”  

Pharma tilts his head, telescopes his optics narrow until all he can see is the burn of red optics in flat, expressionless dark plating. Tarn sprawls gracefully in his great hulk of a chair, leans on one arm and tilts his head with all the assurance the universe will bend to him. All that power,  making genteel, politic threats. It’s almost unnerving. But Pharma’s danced this waltz since he walked through the glittering halls of the Golden Age senate, between the lies and the half-truths and snares.

“And you would trust an Autobot,” Pharma says, taps a servo on the desk slow and measured.

“Ah,” Tarn’s optics flare like solar bursts, bright and snapping as he rumbles low, “my dear doctor. Of course. After all, we both have an interest in our negations working out to our mutual satisfaction.”

“Of course,” Pharma says, leans back slow and deliberate in his chair.

“No, I trust you will live up to your reputation,” Tarn says, “as I’m sure I can trust to your discretion.”

He reaches towards his screen, then pauses.

“Oh, and Doctor,” he says. “Perhaps you might try Ostinato’s lesser known works for the cyber violin, if you haven’t heard them. They’re quite exquisite.”

 

 

_Corrente_

 

The snow powders Pharma’s wings, melting and running down his wings in icy, irritating little rivulets, but he doesn’t move, only watches the shuttle settle itself sedately just outside the rear entrance. No sigils grace the harsh steel of its plating, no decorations grace the sharp angles and lines of it. 

Right on time, as ever. Tarn is nothing if not prompt in his little rituals. Every quartex for the past stellar cycle, regular as chronometer. Although considering the state his cog was in from his little transformation addiction every time Pharma popped it loose, it was only surprising he wasn’t demanding a transplant more often. 

The flash of hot air from the vents of the shuttle as it cycles through its landing sequence does nothing to drive away the cold. Good thing Pharma had managed to shoo First Aid and Ambulon out before the snap hit, or today’s situation would be… rather more complicated. Difficult enough to manage the sequestration of the transformation cogs. He’d thought initially that Ambulon, at least–

But no. With the way he flakes guilt behind him like the chips from that ridiculously shabby paint job, there’s no way he would have the steel struts necessary for an operation this delicate. And First Aid, bless his idealistic little processing routines. No, this is Pharma’s burden to bear.

The shuttle door hisses as it opens and after a pause, Tarn appears, all thick, rough, treads and glowering purple plating. Grounders, honestly. All that oversized bulk and deafening engine noise. Pharma pulls his wings tighter to his frame, stares up into Tarn’s mask. 

“Pharma.”

“Doctor,” Pharma says, raises his chin. Tarn stares, and his optics flare in the cold light. Pharma’s wings tense a little higher, and he doesn’t look away. 

Then Tarn nods, a gracious dip of his head. 

“Of course, Doctor,” he says, voice purring it out dark and amused. “Shall we…?”

Pharma turns sharply on his heel, and doesn’t look back. In spite of his bulk he can barely hear the tread of the mech behind him as they follow the slick stone path back into the medical center. A jab of the glowing green button beside the door, and Pharma leads him inside, into the heart of Delphi. 

“Do tell me,” Tarn says. “How has it been, since our last meeting? All your staff still in good spirits? I can’t imagine it’s easy, out here, so alone…” 

“ _My staff_ ,” Pharma says, “do perfectly well under my supervision.” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Tarn says, “only that with so little by way of simple comforts, it must be difficult.”

Pharma picks up speed, lets the sharp staccato of his feet echo his impatience from the walls. They only have a cycle until his staff is due to start slogging back in, and there’s still a pile of administrative nonsense on his desk a meter high. Still his rounds to make, and his case overview with his senior staff. A never-ending drone of monotonous necessities.

“Tell me,” Tarn says, and Pharma flexes his hands wide, clenches them tight again. “Have you listened to the works for cyber violin I mentioned?” 

Fine. Pharma pivots sharply, doesn’t move as Tarn manages to pull himself to halt and loom over him. If this is the game he wants to play, this polite charade of respectability and gentle conversation, then Pharma will meet him. 

“I had planned to pop down to the Iacon archives on my midday break,” Pharma says, painting his smile with acid, “But somehow just couldn’t find the time. In here please.” 

“Hmm,” Tarn sidles by into the tiny exam room, close enough Pharma can feel the heat from his fans. “And I don’t suppose either of your staff would happen to have a copy…?”

Please. Pharma snorts, gestures impatiently to the low table and fingers each of his instruments one by one, checking the list in his head. 

“As if either of them weren’t practically new sparks,” he says. “Neither of them remember a time when musicians had the luxury of time and sponsorship to produce something truly great. The only alternative to the local comms channel I’ve had from them is the last hundred years in shard-pop top twenty.”

The t-cog nestles safely in its opaque container below, a sturdy miner’s cog, for a sturdy mining mech. Pharma rearranges his tools, laying them out in order: scrub, scourer, forceps, clamp. The miner wouldn’t miss it; a little hard to miss anything with your entire frontal processorsmashed by a cave-in. It’s a simple equation in the end really. A unneeded part from a dead miner, in return for Pharma’s survival, the survival of an entire medical facility. He’s never been one of Prime's idealistic sycophants blind to the realities of the universe. 

Tarn chuckles, longues back onto the slab. “Primus forbid. Although I’ll admit my staff unfortunately has rather similar taste.”

His merry band of murderers doesn’t appreciate the classics? What a shocking revelation. Pharma flips open the case, hoists it up onto the slab. 

“Lay back,” he says, jabs Tarn in the side when he attempts to sit up. “And don’t move. This is a delicate procedure, and at any other facility this would take at least twice the amount of preparation.”

“I would offer the assistance of my mecha,” Tarn says low, stretches his bulk out more gracefully than should be possible, “but I’m sure you would decline. They are happy to be here on a moments notice, however.”

Pharma ignores the dry-ice wisp of fear that curls from Tarn’s voice, around his spark. 

“I don’t need any ham-handed brutes mucking up delicate surgeries,” he says, processor already filtering out the world until it narrows down to the light of invisible lines sketching themselves out on plating, the ghost precision marks of his tools. Simple, elegant. 

“Then, my dear doctor,” Tarn says, optics bright and gleaming, “I will leave myself in your ever-capable hands.” 

 

 

_Sarabanda_

 

“You should have commed me,” Pharma hisses. “given me _some_ kind of notice.”

The leading edge of his wings press into the icy steel wall behind until they numb, and _damn_ this Primus-forsaken planet. You’d think in a hell-hole like this there’d at least be some decent anti-freeze to keep his lines from practically icing from the inside out but _no_. 

“But my dear doctor,” Tarn purrs in that dark wine-smooth voice of his, altogether too serene for someone who’d come stomping in here to ambush unsuspecting upstanding Autobots. “Isn’t it Casius that said true enjoyment must be spontaneous? That it is that ethereal joy to keep the fire burning bright?”

“I don’t which part of our _arrangement_ made you think of enjoyment,” Pharma says. Really, quoting Casius at him? He folds his arms tighter across his chest and and ignores the way Tarn seems to loom closer with every word.

“And anyway,” he says, “if we’re taking a conversational turn towards the adages of the great philosophers then perhaps you can remember Fuga. Wasn’t it her who said _spontaneity, left to itself, can begin excusing bad behavior_?”

Just because Tarn happens to be rather more well read than Pharma had thought for someone of his particular profession and silver-tongued enough to quote philosophers in his defense is no reason to overlook this slip of basic courtesy. 

“I’m hurt,” Tarn says, amused. He tilts his head, and there’s something in the way the aperture of his optics narrow, almost hungry…

Pharma turns to stare down the hallway. 

“You couldn’t have known that my staff would be absent,” he says. 

“On the contrary,” Tarn says. “I ensured it.” 

And Primus damn him to the smelters. Of course. The minor collapse in a planetary section that had seemed perfectly stable yesterday, severe enough it had necessitated an extended medical response. Of course that hadn’t been a coincidence. The only surprise was that a mech with such a penchant for dramatics had managed to orchestrate an incident so relatively subtle. 

Although still, _entirely_ out of line. They didn’t have a scheduled meeting for nearly another deca-cycle. 

“I did think you would appreciate the continued discretion,” Tarn says, “as I assume our arrangement is still confidential?”

Pharma doesn’t bother to acknowledge that bit of idiocy with a comment, presses back against the ice of the wall until his wing tips ache.

“Unfortunately, I’ve found I’m in need of your particular…” Tarn reaches out, and _dares_ to trail a hand down Pharma’s arm, “…assistance, rather sooner than I had anticipated.”

Pharma’s optics snap to his, and _well_ then. If this is the sort of dance Tarn wants to lead them in now.

“Of course, I’m always happy when I can be of assistance,” Pharma lets his voice smooth, lets his arms relax down into Tarn’s touch and arches his back until his cockpit gleams in the cold light, “in _any_ way.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear there was shock in the sharp flare of Tarn’s optics. It would serve him well to remember Pharma was no blank-eyed bowing sycophant. Pharma has danced these steps since he was practically a sparkling, and no Decepticon warmonger can use them to frighten him into subordination. 

“But of course,” Tarn murmurs back, carefully raises his hand off Pharma to rest on the wall beside him. It brings him close enough the warmth and thrumming of his stupidly massive engines vibrates warmth through Pharma’s frame. “You really are the best at what you do.”

Which is of course obvious. Pharma’s wings flare just the slightest bit, and he lifts his chin because he _is_ the top of his field. It’s only sensible that even the Decepticons can see that. 

“You’re lucky I happen to have a cog ready to go,” he says. “Although next time, at least a cycle’s preparation time would be nice. You’ll have to wait while I arrange the room.” 

“Of course,” Tarn says. “I’m sure you’ll be able to finish well before my team comes looking for me.” 

He pulls away from the wall, until Pharma can only feel the ghost of his heat against his plating. Pharma snaps away from the wall, heads towards his little operating room without looking back. The chill creeps back over his wings, but he refuses to pull them in tighter.

“We never did have a chance to discuss more of Ostinato’s works,” Tarn says. “I do appreciate the difficulty anymore of finding it.” 

Pharma sniffs, ignores him. 

“I’d be happy to provide you with my own personal copies,” Tarn says. “After all, it is _so_ difficult to find another connoisseur.” 

Pits damn him. Pharma doesn’t let himself tense up with the thought of music, good, classical _Cybertronian_ music. It’s been so long. Even before this posting, there’d been no one really to properly appreciate it with - Rachet certainly hadn’t. Too busy with his low-brow parties and his Dead End clinic and his quixotic friends. 

Oh, there was a pitiful trading market on Messatine. Pharma had carefully picked through bits of alien data labeled as music, but it was nothing like the collection he’d had before the war.

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” he says, careful to keep his tone brisk, casual.From the chuckle Tarn makes, he doesn’t think it worked.

“Doctor,” Tarn says, slow, and lazy, and so hot it feels like it will burn Pharma’s spark along with it, “it would be my pleasure.” 

 

 

_Giga_

 

The last seam welds back into place, connections snapping back together after as elegantly as the bonding of atoms. The delicate work is done - a quick diagnostic and defrag cycle and Tarn’s system would be working practically new-forged. The quiet _whirr_ of activation resonates through metal, systems clicking and resetting as the last part of Rossum’s Trinity clicks home. Spark, brain module, transformation cog. Outdated, maybe. But not incorrect, in the end. 

It’s a simple procedure for Pharma, made pathetically easy by the unending repetition of it. A steady routine that lately has been increasing in frequency. This cog is the third this deca-cycle. This one from… some idiot slagged in a back alley fight? That patient airlifted in from the last battle? The cold, greying frames blur together in his mind, an unending lined pinpointed with the coruscating copper gleam of cogs. 

Pharma sprays a final coating over the incision site, snags a soft cloth of his shoulder to rub it gleaming. 

“Give it a day before you try to transform,” he says, not that he expects Tarn will listen. Credits to cybertreats Tarn will be cycling through a transformation before he even clears Delphi. He drops the used cloth in the heap of used tools, grimy and oil-splattered. Unfortunately their little arrangement means he can’t pawn this off on Ambulon to do the clean-up. Ugh. He hasn’t had to turn over his own rooms since before he was a resident. 

Tarn sits up, eying the plating covering his shiny new t-cog greedily. Paranoid glitch refuses anything more than a localized dampening of pain sensors. Whatever. It’s not Pharma’s problem, as long as Tarn can keep himself still and unfazed by the glimpse of his flayed open internals.

“I’m sure it will be the same excellent work as always doctor,” Tarn says. He stretches, pulls himself slowly to his feet. 

“Oh, and doctor,” Tarn pauses, giving Pharma what he’s sure _Tarn_ thinks is a subtly intimidating leer, “I hope next time we won’t have any similar delays.” 

Pharma keeps his wings low and relaxed, rewraps the bundle of dirty instruments. “Funny. I would have thought a mech in your… _particular_ line of work would understand the value of patience in producing the best results.”

Tarn drums up a vaguely ominous rev deep in his chest, braces both arms on the table behind him. 

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone complain I was too hasty,” he purrs, lets his optics dim and sends out a ghost of charge to dance electric against Pharma’s seams. Every shift of his plating, every wave of heat brushes plating, lighting up the sensor net underneath it glowing. Pharma shudders, sets down his bundle of detritus so he can turn to face Tarn. 

“Oh?” Pharma tilts his head, dips his chin, and doesn’t back down.

The light from Tarn’s optics spirals narrow, and in a beat all the electricity sparks cold, all the force and weight of him that brought him to wield the most feared weapon in the Decepticon forces gleaming off him. 

“But my patience is not infinite, _doctor_ ,” Tarn says. “I have a mission to complete, and that requires that I be in optimal condition at all times.” 

“Of course,” Pharma says, flares his wings crisp and high. “After all, we both have an interest in this arrangement working out to our ‘ _mutual satisfaction’_. ”

Tarn doesn’t move for a long moment. His plating smooths down, and he pushes off the slab. 

“Very well,” he says, and turns towards the exit. Before he ducks under the sloping arch of the door, he turns back to Pharma, says, “Oh, and here.” He tosses a data chip arcing through the air to Pharma. 

“Do let me know what you think,” he inclines his head. “And perhaps some time I can share some of my more obscure collection. When we’re running ahead of schedule, and there is time to properly appreciate it.”

“Over a glass of energon wine, then?” Pharma says, saccharine. “Just a couple of aficionados, exchanging recordings of an evening?” 

“But of course,” Tarn nods, and for all that he has a mask he manages to radiate something so gleefully predatory Pharma flares his wings high and startled. “Until then, my dear doctor.” 

 

 

_Ciaccona_

 

It almost aches, how the music rolls over him, high, clear, fluid as the curve of glass. A single melody, echoing aching in the struts of him.

“ _Parthia for Cyber Violin,”_ Tarn says. “Exquisite, isn’t it?” 

Pharma startles, and _oh_. He’d nearly off lined his optics. A slip, forgivable, because this music… it’s been so long. 

But then, Tarn is still waiting for his answer. Pharma inclines his head, because Tarn isn’t wrong. The way the melody spins out like copper ribbons, looping and dipping. The precision, the control…

Pharma swishes his glass of whatever outrageously fine vintage of mulled energon wine that Tarn had brought, watches chartreuse swirl thick and decadent. 

It’s so easy like this to forget, what Tarn is. What he demands. When he sits like this with his vintage energon and a treasury of near-forgotten works of the greatest artists of Cybertron. He couldn’t have turned down this offer, after all. Tarn had been so insistent, and it is in Pharma’s best interest to preserve the delicate balance of their relationship. 

This could hardly even be classed an appeasement, really. It really was so rare, these days and especially in this Primus-forsaken wasteland, to find someone else that could properly appreciate the finer things. And if their shared appreciation strengthened Pharma’s value in Tarn’s measure, well. 

“There’s something so unabashedly… romantic, isn’t there? In Crescendo’s interpretation,” Tarn says. “She did always have a certain panache with these type of solo works.” 

“Sometimes if you want the job to be done perfectly you do it yourself,” Pharma says. “And you can’t argue with the results. It really is her finest.” 

Something about how she commands the melody, sends it soaring precisely where she means it to go, over and over in perfect exaltation. Pharma’s always appreciated the artist that didn’t need to rely on a full orchestra behind them to give their music wings. 

Tarn hums, delicately proffers the bottle. “More wine?” 

Pharma shouldn’t. It’s practically eons since his university days of free flowing engex and high drinking tolerances. He holds out his glass. 

Tarn closes one hand over Pharma’s to steady his glass. It engulfs Pharma’s servos, the heat of him pulling circulation back into delicate circuitry. He’s close enough to tower over Pharma, and after the glass is filled he doesn’t retreat.Simply lounges back against the seat, close enough Pharma can soak in the heat of him. 

“There is something to be said for the soloist of course,” Tarn says. “But have you heard Contra’s duets?” 

He offers a data stick, nearly brushing a wing as he does. The edge of his energy field, normally pulled tight and circumspect against him flares gossamer and dark against Pharma’s and _oh._ It’s thick, drugging, drizzling bittersweet as molten gold syrup. Pharma shivers, lets Tarn’s field coax filaments of his own, his wings droop lower until they brush the rubber-rough edge of Tarn’s treads. 

Pharma feeds the stick blindly into the stereo, listens as the music burst into a sharp gunshot staccato of call and response. A rippling wash of notes, twining into gentle crescendos, sparking into a snap-burst flare of harmony. He lets his optics blink out, falls into the inferno of the music of the field pulling inexorable at his. It feels inevitable as time, as the spiraling patterns of the universe.

This close to all that heat, he can barely feel the cold. 

“This performance was one of greatest interpretations I ever heard,” Tarn says, soft into Pharma’s audial. “Both the artists were the virtuosos of their respective houses. Together… together they were _magnificent._ ”

Pharma can hear it, in the clash of strings, in the echoing harsh thrum of vibrato. Can hear they way they dance, neither artist giving way. 

Pharma’s so warm. He takes another sip of his wine, lets it pool bittersweet on his glossa. 

“It doesn’t have the elegance of the Ostinato solo works,” Pharma says, and he can feel Tarn’s hand sliding lower on the back of the seat, closer, closer, “but it is… ” 

“Gorgeous,” Tarn says, and then his hand is on Pharma’s wing, ghosting over the delicate curve of plating, lighting up every oversensitive sensor electric and wanting; and it’s too late, it’s been too late, and the music swells and crashes, and Pharma shudders, melts. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> now with bonus smut

_Coda_

 

Tarn’s hand ghosts down the edge of his wing, then up, a hint of charge and warmth stroking delicately over sensors. Down, and up again, until Pharma tilts just enough to push the edge into massive, blunt fingers. 

Tran rumbles, low and greedy, grips just enough the tips of servos scrape teasing against hypersensitive metal. This time when he reaches the leading edge he flattens his hand against back of Pharma’s wings, massages slow warm spirals towards the joint and oh _Primus_ where did a dustkisser learn to _do_ that? 

Tarn’s hand finds his back strut, digs in all of his servos and drags them up achingly, achingly slow until he can cup the back of Pharma’s helm and let static spit and bite, grounding itself teasing in Pharma’s frame. Pharma’s vents cycle faster, pulling in air as Tarn turns his head slowly, slowly. His hand on Pharma’s neck _burns._

“Look at you,” Tarn croons, soft as spun steelsilk. “That’s it. Let me.”

Pharma should pull away. Should change the music, should make his excuses. 

Should, should, _should_. Pharma’s plating flushes warm and he relaxes, lets his fans spin up until Tarn’s eyes spark like flames behind his mask, hand tightening, guiding, pushing Pharma back until he’s splayed against the cushions. Behind them the music swells one last time, and fades into humming.

“Like that,” Tarn says, “ _gorgeous_.” 

Pharma _is_ gorgeous. He arches up, curls a leg closer so Tarn can nudge between them. Tarn keeps a hand on Pharma’s neck, thick fingers working gently over delicate cables, drags his other hand down the curve of Pharma’s waist to thumb at the access panel set into his hip. 

And Pharma _could_ pop it open, let Tarn plug his probably oversized and unwieldy cables right in, just like that. His firewalls were exemplary. 

Or he could make Tarn work for it. Make him wait on Pharma’s whims, on Pharma’s desire. 

Tarn rubs circles over the barely visible seams, coaxing, slides his other hand down Pharma’s neck, side, down to thumb at the matching port on Pharma’s left side.

“Open for me,” Tarn murmurs. “Let me into that brilliant processor of yours.” 

“I don’t know,” Pharma says, twists in Tarn’s hands. 

“May–” he chokes as Tarn rumbles warningly, squeezes down and pins his hips to the cushions. “Maybe you should be more convincing.” 

Tarn stiffens, stills. Stares down at Pharma with eyes gleaming, and Pharma lifts his chin, arches into Tarn’s grip, lets his wings flex until the shine of the leading edge catches the light. 

“Then” Tarn says, “let me give you what you _need,_ ” and when had Pharma said anything about need, that arrogant dirtlicker, except Tarn slides back, lowers himself forward, lower, and what is he _doing?_ There’s a soft click, and Tarn’s mask winches up and Pharma cranes his head down and will he be able to see…? But no, it’s only a crack, shadowed, and it doesn’t make any sense except–

_Oh._ Tarn’s _mouthing_ at his port cover, tracing the edges, as he slowly kneads at the curve of Pharma’s waist. It’s _debauched,_ except somehow Pharma’s covers slide away, let Tarn’s tongue flick right at the edge of his ports, practically in his _internals._

Sparks arc and snap over Pharma’s plating, and Tarn keeps going, lapping at the tips of delicate prongs as his fingers work into the gaps of Pharma’s armor to tease actuators, light his sensors electric and wanting. It’s so much, and it’s been so _long,_ so very, very long and Pharma keens, and he’s so close–

“Is this what you needed, Pharma?” Tarn pulls away to breathe into the joint of Pharma’s hip and no no _no,_ smelters take him. “Tell me.” 

Pharma’s vocalizer lets out a screech of frustrated static, and he grabs for the Tarn’s treads, bucks up except the damn mech doesn’t move, just lets grey lips just barely visible through the slit in the mask curl into a smirk.

Pharma resets his vocalizer, digs fingers viciously into rough rubber and hisses, “ _More._ ” 

The slag-sucking spawn of a scrapheap _laughs._ But before Pharma can get his legs working enough to push the glitch off the couch Tarn lowers his mouth back to Pharma’s hip port and _sucks,_ gets his hand on Pharma’s other hip and somehow sends a glittering jolt of fire into _that_ port. His field surges against Pharma’s, thick and heavy and drugging, and Pharma shudders, systems surging as he lets it pull him into the sweet blank rush of overload.

When Pharma’s optics cycle flicker back online Tarn’s mask is firmly back in place, cord unspooled and connector between his fingers, resting just against the rim of Pharma’s port.

“My dear Pharma,” Tarn murmurs, hands soothing over Pharma’s overheated plating.“Are you ready for more?"

He soothes his hands down Pharma's thighs, massages gentle circles back up. "So gorgeous, watching you shiver apart for me. Want to watch you do it again.” 

Pharma’s systems are still sparking in aftershocks, everything too bright and oversensitive, but he forces his vocalizer to engage. Demands, “Give it to me,” because he wants more, and Tarn has done this to him, and he _will_ give him more. 

Pharma’s wings twitch involuntary as lingering current sparks through his actuators, and Tarn’s gaze rakes over them, hot and hungry as smelters. 

“Watched you fluttering those wings at me in the halls, just like that, trying to charge me up,” he says, teasing the tip of his jack over Pharm’s port. “Is this what you wanted? Did you want me to lick you open, fill you up with me?”

“Do it,” Pharma hisses, claws at Tarn’s treads and tries to drag him closer. He’s _burning,_ and he needs this, needs more. “Tarn, _frag me_.”

Tarn’s engines _growl,_ his hand convulsing and then he does, slides his connector in. Surges into Pharma’s systems, pulses pleasure electric and sweet, overclocked systems pushing in, filling Pharma up, and _oh._ It’s so good, so good, and Pharma can hear himself sob through the haze of white noise in his audials, pushes back until he can send charge rolling back through Tarn. 

Tarn moans, helm dropping to Pharma’s chest, a mask point digging into Pharma’s cheek but he can barely feel it as Tarn sends the charge cycling back, surging over him as Tarn winds himself deeper, syncing their systems tight together. 

It’s depraved, reckless, every rolling wave of energy dragging him deeper into drugging pleasure until Pharma’s spinning, every sensor straining, white-hot sparking and overcharged. Tarn’s presence, dark and heavy as syrup wound through him, coaxing him over, and Pharma lets go, and falls. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are <3


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